


Broken Things Like Me (Are Better Left Alone)

by SilverBlaze85



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Sexual Submission, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, h/c bingo fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBlaze85/pseuds/SilverBlaze85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He swallows hard, shaking almost imperceptibly, longing to obey but the silky voice of Loki and “you were made to obey” makes him balk.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Things Like Me (Are Better Left Alone)

  
**Title:** Broken Things Like Me (Are Better Left Alone)  
 **Word Count:** 1,075 words  
 **Fandom:** Avengers  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Warnings:** Non-sexual D/s relations, quick blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to past Natasha/Clint, same reference to current Clint/Coulson. Fills my "Trust Issues" prompt on Hurt/Comfort bingo  
 **Summary:** _He swallows hard, shaking almost imperceptibly, longing to obey but the silky voice of Loki and “you were made to obey” makes him balk._

  


* * *

  
For the first few days, he’s relieved that nobody says anything directly to him about the Loki incident. He’s raw and off-balance and unmade and liable to snap the wrong way if someone pushes him. But they’re all carefully ignoring him, and he starts to relax, settle in that his comrades know it was brainwashing, that he didn’t turn traitor. Up until he overhears the junior agents talking one day, about how they can’t argue really, _Captain America_ vouched for him, so it was pretty clear that the entire situation was don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t turn your back on Barton, don’t make it obvious. He’s shaking when he retreats to the range, hurt and anger and the innate need to hurt something rising up in him. He’s barely got it under control when Natasha flips off the lights, smirking as she walks away.

She keeps up with the little digs, just enough to knock him away from an edge, keeps him barely human for the next week, until someone asks when Captain Rogers is coming back, and for some inane reason, it’s the last straw. He’s not even aware he’s growling, not aware of his tightly clenched fists until Natasha snaps her fingers, just enough of a sound to jar his attention, shove him off the knife-edge and back into reality. He looks up at her, and the severe glare she’s dishing out is quietly panicking. It’s even more so when she just raises a brow and walks away towards the barracks, the implicit command to follow quite clear.

The door shuts with a quiet ‘snickt’, and Natasha doesn’t even pause, just says “On your knees” as she proceeds to the small bed and eases down on the edge, all commanding grace. His first reaction is to fight the order, balk like a horse fighting the lead rope and halter or a dog battling its leash. He locks himself in place, refusing to kneel like he wants to, and refusing to say something he’ll regret. The impasse lasts a few minutes, and then Natasha lets the domme slide away like water, a mask tucked away for use later, and she leans forwards, elbows on her knees as she watches him. “Do you trust me?”

And that’s the burr in the problem, isn’t it. He _trusts_ Natasha, trusts her with his life and even more, with Coulson’s life, trusts that she won’t let him down. He swallows hard, shaking almost imperceptibly, longing to obey but the silky voice of Loki and “you were made to obey” makes him balk.

Natasha rises from the bed, closing the distance and gently cupping his cheek in a tiny hand, eyes gentle but determined. “You know me, Clint. You know how this works. Say the word, and it’s over. Let me help you, okay?” He closes his eyes, settling into the calm and quiet that he uses when he’s got the target in his sights, and knows in his heart of hearts, his Nat is still his lodestone. So he nods once, accepting the power as he hands it over, slipping down to his knees and resting back on his heels, eyes opening to watch the smile drift across her face. “Good boy.”

“Nat, I can’t…” he swallows hard, fighting back the urge to spill things he shouldn’t. Tries to figure how to word it.

“I know. I wouldn’t ask that of you.” She runs her fingers through his short hair, and he can’t help but nudge into it, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “It’s not about the sex. I’m just tired of seeing you so broken, little hawk.”

He wants to argue that, but he feels a little drugged, and just grumbles. She laughs, and then steps back, settling on the edge of the bed again, legs crossing neatly. “Come here.” He does, not bothering to stand for the short distance, letting the worry slide away as he obeys. She’s right, she always is. He trusts her, trusts that she won’t cross lines that are feathery in the sand, won’t take what he can’t give. She hums her approval when he reaches her and sits again, watching her carefully until she nods to her feet. “Please remove my boots and place them by the bedpost,” she asks, and he does, calluses rasping on the laces as he undoes them and loosens the tongues, removing them and settling them neatly under the edge of the bed. Natasha is precise, and doesn’t tolerate sloppiness, and he relishes that right now, craves the precise and clearly defined after the Loki mess, and the way everyone has handled him with kid gloves since the news about Coulson.

Natasha’s nails gently scratch along his scalp as she runs her nails through his hair, gently tugging him forward against her thigh, and he knows this, knows it’s okay, and burrows his face between the S.H.I.E.L.D. issued blanket and the warm denim. Her fingers slip down a little to massage the back of his neck, a quiet murmur telling him he’s done well, that he’s good, and he nuzzles against her, ignoring his uneasy breathing. He’s just starting to steady when she sighs, going quiet for a long moment before she finishes flipping his world around. “Clint, I want you out of the barracks.” He starts to jerk back to look at her, but she tightens her fingers in the short hairs at his nape, not enough to cause pain but enough to make her intent clear. _Stay put and hear me out._ “This isn’t good for you, Clint. This isn’t working anymore. Stark has rebuilt his Tower, and he’s been wanting to consolidate the team there. I know Dr. Banner has taken him up on it, and Captain Rogers has agreed to come back to it when he’s done with his personal mission. I think it might be good for us to move there, at least for a while. Change of scenery, if you will.” Her fingers loosen, but he doesn’t move, just rubs his cheek against her jeans. “If you truly dislike it, we’ll come back to the barracks.” She quiets, letting the silence slip back in, and he nods against her thigh.

He can’t trust himself right now, doesn’t trust Fury or any of the others. But he trusts Natasha. Trusts her to watch his back, but right about now? He trusts her to hold him steady as he remakes himself. 


End file.
